


Winter's Calm

by the_snowfeather



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-13
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2019-02-01 16:17:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12708489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_snowfeather/pseuds/the_snowfeather
Summary: Winter blankets the recently liberated Commonwealth in peace and quiet, and settlers find that they can move past the threat of the Institute. While the Commonwealth adapts to new norms under the Minutemen flag, for a few of it's citizens there is a glimmer of hope reflecting off the cold snow.





	Winter's Calm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome! Thank you for choosing to read my work. I am excited to finally have refined this to a point that I am ready to share. Please feel free to provide your thoughts and constructive criticisms, I would appreciate it greatly! Also, you can find me and more about the characters at [snowofthewastes.tumblr.com](http://snowofthewastes.tumblr.com)

The fog was rolling in thick and turning the streets of Boston into a labyrinth. Avis Paul knew that with fog like that, the Commonwealth's creatures would be running wild. It was time to seek shelter, he would resume his travels in the daylight. As he rounded a street corner,  the muddled glow of neon signs advertised for the nearest town. A heavily fortified settlement, Avis followed the bright arrows to the gate and slipped through in hopes of safety. 

Goodneighbor was not the most reputable place for a Brotherhood of Steel paladin to hunker down. The sounds of jazz rose up from the manhole covers into the streets, intertwining with the giggles of drunk women hanging from the arms of passing men and the buzz of flickering neon. String lights swung gently in the late night breeze, crisscrossing the roads and encouraging shadows to dance across the sidewalks to the vigor of a full band. A drifter leaned against brick wall, cigarette dangling from his lips with a red glow. Avis avoided the street vendors and quickly made his way to the hotel. 

The paladin tapped his foot to the beat as he paid for his hotel room at the Rexford. He slid fifteen caps across the counter and asked if Goodneighbor had its own radio station. He'd never heard these songs on Diamond City Radio. The clerk shook her head with a smile and pointed him down the street. A jazz club, she told him, the kind of nitty gritty reality Diamond City could never offer. Avis thanked her and made for his room. 

Even on the third floor, the underground tunes were inescapable. Avis dug through his pack for a more civilian outfit, a navy suit and brown slacks. He combed his fingers through his chestnut hair and headed back to the street level. A Neighborhood Watch eyed him suspiciously, no doubt noticing the outfit swap. Women of the street smiled and winked as he strode toward the bar, having seen the handsome paladin enter town and knowing those lonely Brotherhood soldiers pay well enough. 

Avis ignored the watchful eyes and found a door tucked into the back of the Old State House, the entrance to the subway tunnels. Above the entrance hung a rusted metal sign with the word 'The Third Rail' and bolts of lightning. He pushed open the door and headed down the stairs to a grand view. 

The bar was rather rough around the edges. Warped and worn plywood created the floor over what used to be subway tracks. Junk fencing blocked the subway tunnels and protected patrons from whatever lived beyond. A smattering of disgusting old couches lined the walls. Tables and chairs covered the back two-thirds of the room, while patrons utilized the front third as a dance floor. 

Yet the décor was grand. The high ceilings were covered in twinkling Edison bulbs strung from end to end. The lights reflected off the shelves of bottles behind the counter and cast glimmers across the room. A working Nuka-Cola dispenser lit up one corner in red. Ladies, both human and ghoul, maneuvered through tables and chairs to take orders and deliver food, heels clacking to the beat. A large copper grasshopper sat on a pillar in the center of the tables, a bowler cap teetered on his head. 

Avis's attention was immediately drawn to the far left of the room. A stage had been built slightly into the subway tunnel, the junk fence rounded into a dome-like shell, and painted with gold. A red curtain draped the back of the stage. A woman sang, a form-fitting red dress covered in sequins revealing all her curves, and a microphone stand in her gloved hands. Behind her was a live band, a spattering of brass and string instruments salvaged from before the Great War. A cast of characters made up the ensemble. A sax player with his trilby hat tipped forward. A standing bass with a beer gut as wide as his instrument. A drummer who clearly had a few hits of psycho in his pocket as well as bloodstream. A few trumpets stood tall with clean and pressed suits.  

Avis made his way across the room to the bar and ordered a Gwinett pale from the robot bartender. He found a seat in an arm chair facing the band. The smell of liquor and cigarette smoke settled over him like a blanket and he tried to shake it off. Avis couldn't remember the last time he set foot in a bar, but he was starting to remember why. A women in short black dress approached and made him an offer, but he shooed her away with an apologetic smile. With a glare she strode away to find another victim, but Avis wasn't about to fall prey to Goodneighbor's many vices. 

The music crescendoed, the singer stepped to the side of the band. Improvised solos floated up to the rafters and the room was electric, beyond just the subway rails, as bar patrons danced and twirled and drank. Even the robot bartender seemed to have a little swing in his hover. The trumpets swayed back and forth to the rhythm. A saxophone took a step back and was replaced by a trombone. 

Avis involuntarily leaned forward onto the edge of seat as he watched the trombone player take the stage. Instantly captivated, he took her all in from head to feet. She wore black t-strap heels with dark pin stripe pants and over a white blouse she wore a dark purple vest that shimmered in the lights. Her dark brown hair cascaded out of a messy bun beneath a fedora that was tilted forward over her face, a dirty white feather tucked into the belt. She belted out her notes with a carefree jazzy swing before taking a half-bow half-curtsy with a dramatic swing of her arm. The fedora stayed on her head, pinned down, but Avis caught a glimpse of her face as light snuck under the brim of her hat. Pale skin, freckles crossing the bridge of her nose, precise purple cateye eyeliner. 

Avis's heart may have skipped a beat as the trombonist stood tall again and without missing a beat returned to her place in the band. Together, they finished up the piece with a rousing crescendo and a glissando unmistakably produced by the trombone. Avis stood to join the room in a round of applause for the group, but his eyes were on the trombone alone. 

The band left the stage while just the bass and drummer remained to back up the singer's powerful voice. Avis sat, leaning back into the chair and taking a long swig of his beer. He watched as a few couples remained on the dancefloor to sway slowly to a sad tune. 

Behind the curtain, Snow set her trombone on a table and sat down at the edge of a couch, leaning her head back. Eyes closed, she took a deep sigh. The trombone was her day tripper, her rejuvenation between stints in the wasteland wilds, but in her mind she was already planning her trek home. She hadn't been there in weeks, and her legs were restless with anticipation. 

As the rest of the band filed backstage, she felt hands slip over her shoulders from behind and begin massaging her back. "Ya know, you ain't the only one with a boner," the rugged voice whispered into her ear with finesse. Thumbs pushed deep into the outside of her shoulder blades and she shot forward out of reach. 

"For fuck's sake, John, could you be any more subtle?" Her irritation was lined with amusement at his poor attempt at flirting. "Give it up, it hasn't and won't happen." 

He came around the couch and sat beside her, placing a shriveled hand on her thigh. Snow quickly slapped it away, "Just get me a drink, will ya?" 

John Hancock sighed and reached for the bottle nearby, "Can ya blame a ghoul for trying?" He passed the bottle to Snow, who simply rolled her eyes at him and took a long drink. He pulled out a jet inhaler and took a huff. "When are you leaving?" 

"I'll be gone before you recover from that," she laughed. "Starlight by sunrise." Hancock's face fell, and Snow leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek. "You know I'll be back in a month." 

"Wish you'd just move back here," he muttered, arms crossed. He took another huff of jet as Snow downed moonshine. The two sat staring forward, lost in their own thoughts. Hancock heard a quiet sniff and put his hand on Snow's, this time the contact was sincere friendship. "Not going to happen. I know." Around them, the air grew heavy as the band dispersed into the main room to drink and silence surrounded them. Hancock gave her hand a gentle squeeze as they leaned toward each other, and Snow's nose brushed against his face. 

A cough interrupted them. A Neighborhood Watch stood beside the curtain and motioned for Hancock. With an apologetic face, he turned to Snow, "Mayoral duty calls, my dear. Please wait?" 

Snow shook her head, "Til next time, John. Time will go by quickly, I promise." She received an exaggerated eyeroll at the use of his first name, but Snow knew he wouldn't have it any other way. 

Hancock nodded, but as he turned to leave Snow stood and grabbed his sleeve. Hancock turned back and pulled her in for a hug. "Promise me you'll be okay out there, Snow. Winter isn't far off," he whispered into her hair. She nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck in response. The two separated and Hancock disappeared into the bar. She could hear him shout to the bartender, "Charles, get my girl another bottle of our finest moonshine for the road!" 

Snow packed up her trombone, placing the case in a locker along the back wall. "Til next time to you too, my friend." She pulled a fur-lined trench coat off the rack, slid her arms through the sleeves, and tied the belt around her waist. Gear slung over her shoulder, she grabbed the bottle of the counter as she swung passed and nodded her thanks to Charles. Snow pulled her hat down over her face as she wove through the tables and couches to the stairway. 

In his chair, Avis felt the brush of a coat on his face as someone walked past him. Before he could look to see who, a figure approached him. Under a tri-corn hat, Avis could see the shriveled skin on their face and hands. He examined the red frock coat, quite the colonial display. 

"What's your business here, Brotherhood?" Hancock interrogated, his arms crossed. His voice was low, to not draw attention, but stern. Avis knew Goodneighbor didn't see eye to eye with the Brotherhood of Steel. Quite frankly, Avis didn't always see eye to eye with the Brotherhood. Yet there he was, face to face with a ghoul that would be labeled an abomination by his superiors. 

"I'm just here for the music. Taking shelter for the night, I'll be gone as soon as the fog lifts." Avis kept his voice calm and his face soft as he answered. "I'm a paying customer, too. I mean no trouble." He raised his beer with a smile. 

"You best not be lying," Hancock leered with distaste. "This town doesn't have room for your hatred." 

Avis sighed, "There's no hatred here, just appreciation for a place to rest, Mister.." he paused, waiting for an introduction. 

" _Mayor_  Hancock," the ghoul spit, clearly displeased with the lack of recognition. 

"Huh. Pleasure to meet you, I'm Paladin Avis Paul." Avis stood and offered a hand, but Hancock ignored the gesture. Avis frowned, "Very well then." 

He walked from the bar, up the stairs and back to the street. The air was crisp, yet stale with the scent of booze and chems. The breeze had picked up in intensity. Avis thought he saw a snowflake or two. 

Avis didn't notice the figure standing across the street, looking up at the balcony of the Old State House with tired eyes. As Avis returned to the Hotel Rexford, the figure stood perfectly still, eyes fixed on the flag draped over the railing. 

"Hello again, Goodneighbor," the figure whispered to himself. He walked forward slowly, unsure if his steps led him in the right direction. The last time he stood in The Third Rail, he was a different man. He felt the sewer grate under his feet as he moved closer to the door, and a small hope that he would fall through into nothingness flickered within him. Defeated and without purpose, he knew what opening that door to the bar meant. 

Before he could reach it, the door burst open to reveal the red frocked ghoul. "MacCready! My favorite merc, you're back!" MacCready stumbled back surprised, but this was it. He had to decide how he was going handle his return and the answer suddenly hit him, the past year wasn't for anyone else to know. He took his past and pushed it down with a deep breath, and suddenly MacCready found his old self hiding within. 

A sly grin crept across his face, "Hancock! How's the coolest ghoul in the Commonwealth?" MacCready reached out for a handshake, but Hancock pulled him in for a strong hug.

Stepping back, the two old friends looked each other up and down. Neither had changed much. Hancock in his colonial garb, MacCready in his tattered old duster. Yet Hancock did notice some slight changes. MacCready's face had aged significantly, wrinkles along his forehead and dark spots beneath his eyes. The red of his goatee had dulled. What stood out the most was the exchange of bullets in his cap, from rifle rounds to small 10mm. MacCready was a skilled sniper, yet a pistol was tucked into his belt. 

"Does Daisy know you're here?" Hancock raised an eyebrow, trying to hide his concern. 

"No, I don't want to disturb her tonight. I'll visit her in the morning." MacCready glanced past Hancock to the door, "It's been a long trip and right now, I need a drink." 

The two entered the bar and a chorus of cheers went up as the patrons saw MacCready come down the stairs. A shy smile showed on his face. 

"A round on the house, for the return of our dear merc, MacCready!" Hancock shouted, his hands raised up to address the crowd. The cheering grew wild as the waitresses brought out drinks for everyone. 

While Hancock rounded up a few drinks and chems from the bar, MacCready made his way to the back room. A sign hung over the archway labeling it as VIP, but he knew it as home. The furniture was still laid out the same, the stagnant air remained, even the bullet from an angry Gunner remained lodged in the wall. He ran his finger over the small hole. 

"You won't have them coming around anymore," Hancock set down a tray of drinks on an end table. "Their numbers have dwindled, so low they can't claim territory. Thanks to the Minutemen." 

MacCready turned away from the bullet. His focus shifted to the assortment of drinks on the tray, picking out a bottle of whiskey. Then a thought hit him, "And the Institute?" 

"Gone, baby, gone. It's been a long while, eh." The pair sat down on the couch, and Hancock pulled out a small green bottle. "It's good to have you back, man." Hancock opened the bottle and dumped two pills into his hand. He offered one to MacCready before popping the other into his mouth. The effects did not take long, and soon the world was slipping and spinning in a kaleidoscope of vision. MacCready took a long swig of whiskey and the world disappeared into a haze of color. 


End file.
